It was still early in the morning when I got the news that the restaurant would be closed for the day.
Manna, our boss, might act tough sometimes, but deep down she was one of the kindest, most considerate people I knew. She always treated the staff like her own family, and this time was no different.
She told Keiko, she was grieving for her too — that Keiko was like a little sister to her. She promised she and the others would come by later in the evening after the cremation was over.
Honestly, I was relieved — it meant I didn’t have to come up with some awkward excuse to take the day off.
In Japan, most funerals follow Buddhist traditions. It’s a quiet, deeply respectful ritual — one meant less for show and more for the shared, unspoken burden of loss. It starts with the wake, otsuya, where relatives gather to keep vigil over the departed, offering incense and silent prayers.
The following day is the kokubetsu-shiki, the official funeral service, where sutras are chanted, incense is offered one by one, and the body is taken for cremation. There aren’t long eulogies. No public speeches. Just shared understanding, heavy silence, and the scent of incense lingering in the air.
And today… was that day.
The sky was overcast, a pale gray like smudged ink over the city. The cherry blossoms from days ago swayed gently, their petals falling one by one like tiny farewells.
Somehow, the world felt quieter today.
I stood under a large black umbrella beside Keiko, watching the priest chant sutras inside the family home. The incense smoke curled lazily upward, clinging to our clothes, to my hair — it was a scent I’d long associated with my own regrets.
Keiko stood rigid, her face impassive, though the slight tremble in her hand betrayed her. On her other side, Rin stood with the kind of quiet maturity that hurt to see in someone her age. So much like her mother.
When it was my turn to offer incense, my heart pounded against my ribs. I knelt before the small altar, pinched a small amount of incense, and bowed.
Please… watch over Keiko. And I’m sorry for everything.
I stole a glance — Keiko wasn’t watching. But Rin was. She gave me the faintest nod. Not approval, maybe, but understanding. And honestly… that was enough.
When it was time to take the body to the crematorium, the mood shifted again. The doors shut with a final, heavy sound. Keiko didn’t flinch, but I saw her fingers dig into the sleeve of her kimono. I reached out, brushing my hand against hers. She didn’t pull away.
We stood there in silence, the cherry blossom petals drifting down like gentle snow, while the cremation began. The only sounds were the low murmur of relatives, the soft sobbing of Keiko’s mother, and the occasional click of prayer beads.
In that stillness, my thoughts ran wild.
I hurt this family, I betrayed them. Yet here I am, standing like I belong.
I looked over at Keiko again. The wind tugged at a loose strand of hair by her cheek. She looked… beautiful. Not in the way you’d call someone beautiful at a party, or dressed up for a date.
It was the kind of beauty born from quiet, unbreakable strength — the sort of strength that outlasts storms, that endures even when no one’s watching.
I gave her hand a squeeze.
“I’m proud of you,” I whispered.
She glanced at me, eyes glassy but steady.
“Don’t make me cry, idiot.”
At least she could still joke. That meant something.
After the cremation, came the final task. The family carefully picked the bone fragments from the ashes with chopsticks, placing them into the urn together. It was something deeply intimate, a moment of family bond even in grief.
Keiko’s mother gave me a small, polite nod — an invitation to join. But I shook my head softly.
I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t earned that right.
That evening, all of the relatives and friends had left. The house was quiet now, but heavy with lingering grief. Keiko’s mother sat in the corner, tea in hand.
She hadn’t spoken to me all day, and honestly, I hadn’t expected her to. But something gnawed at me. I couldn’t leave it .
I took a breath and stepped closer.
“Mom… I mean, Mrs. Takayama…”
She looked up, her face tired, older somehow. I bowed deeply.
“Thank you… for letting me be here. I know this isn’t the right time for complicated things, but… I’m grateful.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, finally, she sighed.
“You don’t look like my son-in-law,” she murmured, eyes narrowing.
“But your clumsy way of speaking… your bad timing… it’s all still there.”
I gave an awkward chuckle. “Sorry. Can’t seem to fix that part.”
A tiny, weary smile tugged at the corner of her mouth — the first one I’d seen all day.
“Take care of my daughter,” she said softly.
“And my granddaughter. That’s all I ask.”
“I will,” I promised.
She added, voice barely audible,
“And come see me… and her dad from time to time.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, and bowed again.
At least… I hadn’t let her think I’d skipped my father-in-law’s funeral. The other relatives probably still had their suspicions about my-Ryusei’s absence.
Keiko had been making quiet, half-excuses all day about him being away or busy, and the weight of those lies gnawed at me.
One day… I hope I would stop making Keiko cover for me.
Later, when everything was done, Keiko and I lay side by side in our small room back in our apartment.
The light from the hallway cast long, soft shadows across her face. She hadn’t said much since we got home, exhaustion plain in every feature.
She didn’t open her eyes.
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“Thank you. For letting me be there. For… everything.”
A long pause. Then she turned to face me. The grief was still there in her eyes, but something else too — something softer.
“Idiot,” she muttered.
“You’re part of this family. No matter how messed up you made it.”
I smiled, my chest tightening.
She sighed, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
I laughed quietly, brushing a stray hair from her cheek.
Maybe tomorrow would be rough. Maybe the ache of grief would settle in heavier.
But… this was enough.
Enough to remind me why I was still here.
Enough to remember the place I’d almost lost.
And enough to know I’d never take it for granted again.